


Jouissance

by afterbaedeker, smutty_claus



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Community: smutty_claus, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-23
Updated: 2008-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-02 12:24:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterbaedeker/pseuds/afterbaedeker, https://archiveofourown.org/users/smutty_claus/pseuds/smutty_claus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco, in atoning for the sins of his past, has lived a life of duty without passion. His life has been a good performance until he meets Rose. This is the story of their fatal, erotic obsession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jouissance

**Author's Note:**

> Written by i_octopus (aka afterbaedeker) as part of the 2008 Smutty Claus exchange.

** To: bewarethesmirk **

 

From: Your Secret Santa

 

 

**Title:** Jouissance

 

**Author:** [i_octopus](http://i-octopus.livejournal.com/)

 

**Pairing(s):** Draco/Rose (subsidiary: Draco/Astoria, Rose/Scorpius)

 

**Summary:** Draco, in atoning for the sins of his past, has lived a life of duty without passion. His life has been a good performance until he meets Rose. This is the story of their fatal, erotic obsession.

 

**Rating:** NC-17

 

**Warnings:** (alphabetically) abuses of power, angst, character death, cross-generational relationships, disturbing content, drama, explicit sexual scenes, guilt, incest (past event), infidelity, lust, obsession, underage participants (past event, not Draco/Rose)

 

**Author's notes:** DH-compliant. EWE-skewed. Plot liberally borrowed from Josephine Hart's "Damage", her first person narrative has been transposed to third. Italicised text from "Damage". bewarethesmirk requested Draco as insane, obsessively lusting after Rose with no hint of Draco/Rose as a legitimate, lovey-dovey pairing. This wish has been granted.

 

**Disclaimer:** I own neither the characters nor the plot, which belong respectively to JK Rowling and Josephine Hart.

 

**Archiving:** Originally posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/smutty_claus/114008.html?mode=reply).

 

~

 

One

Many of us are bound by duty in our lives. It may be the unasked for fidelity of family, loyalty to a lover or allegiance to a cause. There is something salvable about a life lived in service of such duties. There is nothing noble in passionlessly performing one's duty out of an unfelt obligation.

In Draco Malfoy's life he has been bound in many unwanted ways; as a son, as a subject, as a husband, and as a father. To compensate for his inability to fully inhabit any of these roles he has become a consummate actor.

Had Draco died at fifty he would have been an economist established within the Ministry of Magic, celebrated within Departmental circles, though not a household name. He would have been remembered as a man who helped reestablish Wizarding Britain as a market leader amongst international economies. He would have been mourned by his wife, Astoria, and by his children, Scorpius and Stella.

His funeral would have been a sedate affair, a smattering of colleagues, perhaps some more successful than he in climbing the Ministry ranks would lend a sense of occasion to the proceedings. A small obituary in a reputable newspaper would be his final publication.

_It would have been the funeral of an above-average man, more generously endowed with the world's blessings than most. A man who, at the comparatively early age of fifty, had ended his journey. A journey which certainly would have led to some greater honour and achievement, had it continued._

But Draco did not die in his fiftieth year.

And that is the greatest tragedy of Draco's life.

Two

The best of childhoods, like Draco's, are looked back on with fond remembrances. He was spoiled for love, for attention, for comfort and that was a disservice he could never forgive his parents for indulging. How unaccustomed he was for the cruelty of adolescence after his blissful boyhood. Perhaps if he had endured hardship like the Harry Potters and the Neville Longbottoms of the world he would have been prepared for the onslaught of school year after school year. Or perhaps he would have moved mindlessly toward his slaughter all the same.

Three

At seventeen Draco had survived the Final Battle of Hogwarts. At eighteen he was cleared of any crimes against the Magical community and enrolled at Beauxbatons to complete his N.E.W.T level studies.

"Economics?" Lucius Malfoy asked his only son, when at nineteen Draco decided to apprentice with his Arithmancy professor.

"And Arithmancy," Draco added. "Monsieur Beaupain will mentor me in both fields."

Lucius pursed his lips in silent appraisal. There was little Lucius could do to alter Draco's course, but both men pretended that a father's opinion once won was to be esteemed.

"You'll stay in France?" Narcissa delicately fingered the single strand of pearls that looped around her neck. Her tone was mildly hopeful, but whether his mother hoped for his return or his prolonged absence Draco was at a loss to discern.

"I will."

"You can come home whenever you need," promised Narcissa. "We're only a Portkey away." Her smile shook upon that uncertain truth.

Neither Lucius nor Narcissa asked Draco why he wanted to apprentice with Monsieur Beaupain. Perhaps if his parents had questioned him he would have had to articulate his decision to study, to justify or even understand his motivations. If he had been thwarted, perhaps he would have been passionate in his commitment. _Perhaps that sort of commitment only comes when the will is thwarted._

After three years of apprenticing Draco was offered a junior position as a comparative researcher for the Department of Finance within the French Ministry of Magic. He bought a petite Parisian apartment. His life took shape.

It was inevitable he would marry. He was a Malfoy and it was his obligation to ensure the name lived on.

Four

Astoria is beautiful. She reflects, in her own muted way, the beauty Draco unsuccessfully buries with his blank will. They make a striking couple, all angles, pale hair and paler skin. They could be siblings, they are so similarly washed out in their appearance.

Draco was not consumed with a devouring, fearsome love for Astoria, not when they met and not by the time they parted. When he proposed to her it was not proprietary or predatory it was simply pragmatic. She reminded him of his mother and that was as a good a model of a wife as Draco needed. He was confident in his marriage.

Draco responded to the news of his impending fatherhood by relocating he and his wife to England. France had been kind to Draco; had provided him his qualifications and his work experience where he had risen to the rank of advisor to the Under Secretary of Finance, it was the place of his rebirth, a small sanctuary from the condemnation of his homeland. But Britain was where he longed to be when he was happiest, where he belonged now he was to be a father.

The birth of Scorpius heralded an era of met expectations. He was perfect in every conceivable way a child can be. What surprised Draco was how underwhelmed he was basking in that perfection. Stella was born five years later. A son and a daughter - his _family was complete_.

In his thirties Draco observed with detachment the admiration his small children sparked in onlookers. Scorpius and Stella were truly beautiful, radiant in their youthful joy. Still, it amazed Draco that the love they gave so freely to him would be his succès d'estime.

In his forties, with his children both safely ensconced in Hogwarts, Draco resumed with rigor his professional ascent. He was praised for his incisive objectivity in developing economic policy for new Britain. He was considered a fierce opponent when challenged and a loyal colleague when supported. His forthright approach to promoting the outcomes of Treasury with an unapologetic pragmatism for political objectives was well received within the Ministry. He was both pleased and unsurprised when he was promoted to Deputy Secretary of Treasury. There were murmurs amongst those that mattered, that should Draco continue his marvelous performance, he may well be appointed as Treasurer by the next Minister of Magic.

Five

Scorpius was a young man of incomparable beauty. He had the fairness of complexion of a Malfoy and the grand features of a Black. There seemed very little of Astoria in her son. Unlike his wife, Draco was not embarrassed by his boy's looks perhaps because he had been raised by uncommonly attractive parents. He was accustomed to beauty and celebrated it in his son.

Stella, too, was beautiful, but if Scorpius's beauty was broadcast with the vibrancy of a Renaissance oil painting, Stella was an Impressionist water colour painted with a palette of restrained pastels.

Scorpius, with the advantage of living in an age without war, finished his schooling with a swag of academic accomplishments. His options were as many and varied as Draco's had seemed doomed and limited at that age. After a period of indulgent consideration Scorpius thought he would accept an internship with a small liberal leaning journal. He flourished as a legal and political correspondent, his personal style transforming dry events into accessible stories. By the age of twenty five his ledes were the talk of the Fourth Estate.

Scorpius' insight was a source of sporadic concern for Draco. He felt his performance, unnoticed by so many, was only scarcely passable to his son. Stella was another matter. At twenty his sweet, star-gazing daughter made a modest living as an astronomer. While Draco felt his son saw through him, his daughter seemed to see around him, a fuzzy outline like glimpsing the tail of a falling star and not an accurate representation. Perhaps she saw past him altogether and who was Draco to argue that that was not the truer sight.

The outlines of Draco's life were clear; a marriage of some twenty seven years that may have lacked passion but compensated for with constancy, two children who were successfully forging their young adulthood, a respectable career spanning more than half his life. Draco Malfoy was a man to be admired, a man to be envied for he was _fifty and fully realised_.

Six

"She looks like Lily a little bit," Stella speculated as she looked at the photo her brother had handed her.

"I suppose." Scorpius disagreed, but then he was in love with Rose Weasley and not the least bit interested in Lily Potter. "They're cousins."

Tilting her head to the side she continued to gaze thoughtfully at the picture. "She looks lovely."

"Oh Lala, you think everyone is lovely."

Stella shrugged at the accusation. Scorpius swung an arm around his little sister, squeezing her shoulder good naturedly.

"Who's lovely?" asked Draco as he entered the kitchen.

"My girlfriend."

Draco arched one blond eyebrow at the news. Stella spotted the quirk of her father's features first.

"Super-" she began. "-Cilious," chimed in Scorpius. "Supercilious. Superciliosus. Supercilium," they chorused together before laughing loudly at their childhood chant.

Draco shook his head. All their lives his children had baffled him. Clearly today was no exception.

Stella took pity on Draco, handing him the photo of Rose. Draco examined the photo with cursory interest, pictures of pretty girls held little appeal for him. There was nothing notable about the photo, it held no secrets of what lay ahead for Rose, it betrayed nothing of her past. Draco's reaction was similarly unremarkable. He felt nothing.

Seven

"Rose Weasley, meet Ellis Spears."

"How do you do?"

Draco froze. The introduction taking place behind him reverberated in his skull. He should turn and face her, introduce himself, play the part of Scorpius' father. He had forgotten his lines. His head was filled with static. He stepped away and slowly the noise of the crowded room settled over him.

He swallowed the last mouthful of firewhisky in his tumbler, shutting his eyes as he composed himself. He would not falter tonight, his budget, handed down by the Treasurer, had been met with resounding acclaim. He prepared for his premature departure.

"Mister Malfoy?" She appeared before Draco like a stain of breath upon a mirror. "Scorpius' dad?" It appealed to Draco that she felt he may recognise his familial role when he did not respond to his name.

"I'm Rose Weasley. _I felt I ought to introduce myself._"

She extended one slender, freckled arm, her hand elegantly entreating. Draco took her hand in his, for all appearances it seemed a picture of formal reception. Upon closer consideration, their hands remained clasped longer than necessary, their gazes locking, drifting, returning. Draco, who skimmed across the surface of other's scrutiny, was drawn to the blue pools of Rose's observation.

Draco barely remembered the last time he had seen her. What was there to remember? She had been eleven and eager to board the Hogwarts Express whereas Scorpius had been sullen, as was his wont.

His mind drifted to that forgettable day. He imagined crossing the platform of King's Cross Station, weaving his way through the dozens of Weasleys that littered its length, and seeking her out. He, the very vision of a respectable Muggle villain in his dark overcoat, with his receding hairline, crouching before his very own Little Red Riding Hood. Oh, how he could picture her now, bundled up in a red woolen coat, her tight ginger curls peeking out from beneath the too large hood. Whispering for her alone to hear: "I'll make you mine one day." Would she stand rigid with fear at his words? Would she smile against his cheek with an innocence she had only begun to lose? Maybe she would whisper back: "No, I'll make _you_ mine." He liked that idea.

"_How very strange_," she said when Draco emerged uneasily from the unreal remembrance his mind had plunged his foremost thoughts into.

"I should go."

"You should," she said.

This strange development could not be allowed to continue. Draco took his leave of Rose specifically and the party generally. The stillness of his murky subconscious had been disturbed. Drowning felt like the only course available to Draco, and drown he inevitably would.

Eight

An anonymous looking owl sped through Draco's office, delivering its small missive without waiting for his reply. With the faintest flicker of interest Draco unraveled the parchment.

  
_Scorpius wants me to meet his family. He's arranging dinner on Saturday. I thought you should know._

Rose

Draco stared at the note.

Did she think he needed her warning? There was a certain censure to her words and the remonstrance rankled.

With a casual _Incendio_ the disagreeable intrusion to his Wednesday went away. Would that he could as easily burn away the incessant thoughts of _her_.

Draco fell fitfully asleep Friday evening and awoke spent Saturday morning. He dragged himself out of his too warm bed and dressed. He decided in a pique of impetuousness that he would go into the Ministry for the day. His bedroom, his house, suddenly felt too confined for him.

Astoria stirred at Draco's movements.

"Darling?"

Draco smothered a sigh at having woken his wife.

"I've some matters at the Ministry."

"But it's a Saturday."

"Duty calls--"

"Don't forget we've got dinner with Scorpius and Rose tonight."

"I shan't." As if that was even possible.

He sat in his office for hours staring into nothingness. His temperament had been disagreeably mercurial for days.

Draco flooed home scant moments before his son's arrival, earning a disapproving glare from Astoria as he dashed past her and up to his room to change. When he returned downstairs everyone was assembled in the parlour; Scorpius and Astoria smiling at some shared banality, Stella and Rose chatting like old girlfriends. Scorpius spied Draco lingering just outside the room. Excusing himself from his mother he stole Rose away from Stella, clasping Rose's hand tight in his to lead her to Draco.

"Dad, this is Rose." His young face was rapturous with new love.

"I know," said Draco.

Scorpius laughed.

"I know you _know_!" Scorpius rolled his eyes for Rose's benefit, indicating his father was entirely too obtuse to function at times. "Allow me to introduce you then. Rose," Scorpius said with faux-formality. "May I present Mr Draco Malfoy?"

Draco should have interrupted his son, interjecting that he knew Rose from a Ministry function, not because of some half glanced at photo or half heard conversation. Yet that expression of the conditional mood went unsaid. Unsaid by Draco and unsaid by Rose who calmly uttered, "How do you do?"

"Miss Weasley."

"_Father_," Scorpius began to scold. "Now that you've made the acquaintance of Miss Rose Weasley, daughter of Ronald and Hermione Weasley, graduate of Beauxbatons, journalist for the Daily Prophet, my inamorata--" Scorpius paused to draw a necessary breath. "--it's surely time for tea."

"Indeed it is," Astoria confirmed.

The quick staccato of Astoria's heels as she moved briskly to the dining room summoned the party to follow her. The five sat down to dinner: a sumptuous banquet prepared by the Malfoy house elves. Talk flowed smoothly while Draco's thoughts swirled stormily. Neither he nor Rose mentioned their earlier meeting. _Rose concealed even the faintest acknowledgement that such a meeting had taken place. Her discretion, at first so soothing in those early minutes, now became a cause of anguish. What kind of woman is such a consummate actress. How could she be so good?_

Draco watched Rose throughout dinner. He observed how the cobalt blue fabric of her dress clung to her body, how the neck line scooped to reveal the delicacy of her clavicle, how the sleeveless design called attention to her pale, freckled arms - arms that would wear the marks of a lover's too tight grip long after their making. But Draco saw that there was strength amongst all the accoutrements of her delicacy.

"_We're thinking of going to Paris for the weekend_," said Scorpius.

"_Who?_" asked Draco, whose attention, for some time, had not been focused on the conversation about him.

"Dad." Stella shook her head. "Rose and Score."

"My mother and brother live there." Draco marvelled at Rose's sleight of phrase. How easily Astoria and Stella accepted this fact of habitation as an explanation for their journey. Draco could only smile when Astoria said, "What a nice idea," to Scorpius, for what was the alternative?

Draco ruminated on the mendacity that seeped into the meal. _He was now a liar to his family. A woman he had known only for days, to whom he had spoken only a few sentences, watched him betray his wife and his son. And each knew the other knew._ Draco felt it was a bond between them. A concealed truth (a lie).

_The small lie, which was the first betrayal, seemed to sink further in the laughter, the wine, and the_ night.

Nine

"Scorpius is coming over for dinner again on Saturday."

"Really?" asked Draco.

Dining with Scorpius and Rose became a semi-regular occurrence for Draco and Astoria. Stella sometimes joined the couples, but her presence was optional. Proprietary dictated Draco's attendance at these family affairs.

Draco and Astoria shared a morning coffee before going their separate ways for the day.

Ten

A single Sickle fell from the blank parchment Draco untied from a Ministry owl. He fingered the coin and it warmed at his touch. Setting it down on his desk he saw small script appear upon the coin's surface: _rose_.

Draco now knew in his life there was an end and a beginning. What he could not tell, was where the beginning would end.

He touched his wand to the Sickle, replacing those four insignificant letters with four irreversible words: _your house. one hour_. Rose returned Draco's instructions with her address and then the coin went cold once more.

Draco Apparated into a small alcove with brick walls lined with ivy and bins tidily spaced. It could have been any suburban back street on the cusp of Muggle London.

Rose led Draco up the stairs from the street entrance to her apartment on the second landing. He stepped into a monochrome photograph of the early twentieth century where the colour of the outside world faded and all that remained were the sepia washed walls, carpets, curtains and ceilings.

_They made no sound as they moved down the hall_. They went to her lounge room and Rose kneeled before Draco. Arms outstretched, she presented herself as a sacrifice for his jouissance. He looked down at her, her eyes wide and knowing. He fisted a handful of her hair, jerking her head to his crotch, holding her face against the heat of his arousal, her breath bleeding through the linen of his pants. Draco fell to his knees in a parody of genuflection. His hands ghosted to the hem of her dress, the snug fabric rolled easily up to her hips with his guidance. She wore no underwear. He pushed Rose's shoulders to the floor. _He lay down on her._ Still her arms remained flung out from her sides, not touching him, not embracing him. Draco slid one hand between their bodies and unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his fly and released his cock. _Then with one hand grasping her hair, he entered her._

They lay unmoving, silent but for laboured breaths. He felt the rise of her breasts press into his chest. She felt the twitch of his cock pulsate within her cunt. There was silence _until finally Draco moved his face across hers, and kissed her._ Their mouths met and Rose released a keening unlike anything Draco had ever heard before. He was frantic in his need to consume her, to taste every part of her, to claim her as his. He pushed at the roll of fabric about her middle and kept pushing until she was free of the garment. He rocked erratically in and out of her. He tore at his own clothes, discarding his jacket and shirt. He stood over her like a conquerer and allowed his trousers to fall to the floor. He peeled his briefs down to his knees. He delivered himself upon her flesh, their flesh now unencumbered by clothing. Rose wrapped her ankles about the base of his back, drawing him into her with the firm pressure of her heels against his spine. Draco gripped at Rose's shoulders as he reared back causing her head to loll from side to side. His hips jerked and her head knocked against the carpeted floor. He snaked his hand between the carpet and her hair to cradle her head.

He kissed her like breathing was a luxury they need never suffer again.

He kissed her until her eyes fluttered shut and her eyelids twitched in sensory uncertainty.

She clenched his cock within her until she thought her entire body would deflate from the energy she expended. Her legs slackened their hold upon Draco who slid his body up and down Rose with long, uneven lurches. He held onto her face with hands that marked her scalp with small crescent shaped indentations, as he gushed inelegantly inside her.

They had fucked like wild creatures - there was no pretense of affection, of anything more sophisticated than primitive desire.

Draco was overwhelmed by emotions that seemed, for the first time, to be unchecked. These foreign feelings filled him and threatened to drown him in a flood of pleasure.

_They bathed separately. Draco left alone, without speaking._ He returned home and played the part of the exhausted civil servant. Astoria accepted the act.

Eleven

"I think chicken would be nice," said Astoria.

"Pardon?" asked Draco.

"A white breasted meat for Sunday's lunch with Scorpius and Rose."

Draco recovered quickly to respond,"Very nice."

"Chicken it is."

_Rose wore white at lunch._ Draco admired her audacity at wearing something so offensively virginal. He wondered if she thought a simple change of costume would diminish his memories of her as the wanton whore who came to him freely. Rose sat primly at the table, charming Astoria, beguiling Scorpius and taunting Draco, all with her simple command of the conversation of the day.

As the house elves cleared away empty plates to prepare for the serving of digestifs, Draco knocked a goblet of wine which skittered across the tablecloth. Its contents soaked into the fabric and spilled into the lap of Rose who was seated opposite the wayward cup. Rose stood as soon as she saw the object roll toward her but was not quick enough to avoid a stain splashing across the lap of her dress. It was barely noticeable, a slight discoloration where the riesling fell. Scorpius flicked his wand with a short, sharp swish and the blemish disappeared. If only all such imperfections were so easily corrected.

Twelve

In fifty years Draco had never been as unerringly beset by passion as he was now, balls deep in the twenty five year old flesh of his son's girlfriend. His libido had never known such invigoration. He had barely restrained himself from pinning her to the stairs that led to her apartment to make unnatural shapes for the most natural of purposes. All semblance of control had quite explicably deserted Draco once he crossed the threshold into Rose's room. He urged her against the closing door, pressed her into the cool wood and with two hissed spells had his cock satisfactorily buried within Rose's readily aroused centre.

Dante foretold how men like Draco, men who failed to deny their baser desires, would be forever swept around in a whirlwind. Draco welcomed the reward of eternal maelstrom in exchange for the thought shattering splendour of his cum anointing Rose.

The Book Rose's maternal grandparents favoured for moral guidance suggested those impure like Rose walk through flames. Rose accepted the masculine heat of Draco into her life without fear of retribution. They would endure no punishment or experience any act more cleansing than their profane union.

With weary limbs they slid to the floor. Rose, limp as a ragdoll, lay against Draco's chest. His back rested flat and slick against the door, his legs lax and bracketing Rose's similarly spent limbs. His arms wrapped loosely around her middle. His head dropped forward, his blond hair, now messy, brushed against her cheek.

"Rose." Her name was as natural as exhaling to him. _"Who are you?"_

There was a long silence.

"I am what you desire," she said.

"No. That's not what I meant."

"No? But to you, that's what I am. To others I am something else."

"Others?"

She laughed at him and Draco felt unaccountably naive.

"Scorpius. My mum, my dad, Hugo." _A long pause. "My family. It's the same for everyone. For you as well."_

"I suppose. It seems so unsentimental for a..." Draco trailed off.

"A girl?"

"A Weasley."

That earned Draco a swat to his sweaty shoulder but also a smile.

"But Scorpius," persisted Draco, "does he understand?"

_ "He asked once. I told him to love me as though he knew me. And if he could not--well then..."_

"Who are you?"

"You have to ask?" Rose was genuinely surprised. "If you must know..." she capitulated to his question. Releasing a sigh she began her story. "My mother is Hermione Weasley. My father is Ronald Weasley. But then you already know all about them don't you, having gone through Hogwarts at the same time? My father has been an Auror since before I was born. My mother was a diplomat. _I travelled a great deal as a child._ I went everywhere mum went with my brothers. We holidayed anywhere and everywhere. _I was not upset when my parents divorced._"

"Brothers?"

Rose tensed against Draco's chest, he held her tightly in his arms, an act of containment or of comfort depending on the recipient's mood.

"I have two brothers. Hugo, who is four years younger than me and lives in Paris with mum. And Arthur, less than a year older than me, who killed himself when I was fifteen. No one talks about suicide in the Wizarding world so no one ever asks why he died. I know why. _He suffered from an unrequited love of me. I tried to soothe him with my body..." She paused, then continued in_ marcato. _"His pain, my foolishness...our confusion... He killed himself. Understandably. That is my story simply told. Please do not ask me again. I have told you to issue a warning. I have been damaged. Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive._"

Draco held the girl who seemed an agreeable extension of himself until all he could hear was the hum of his touch on her body.

_"Why did you say 'understandably' Arthur killed himself?"_

"Because I understand. I carry that knowledge within me. It is not a treasure that I jealously guard. Simply a story I did not wish to tell, about a boy you have never known."

Draco encircled her wrists between the thumb and forefinger of both his hands in an inadequate approximation of affection.

"You're not the only one with stories that are hard to tell."

"No doubt. There lies the difference then between you and me. I'll never ask you tell those tales."

"You shan't find anything sinister in Scorpius' past." Draco did not share this insight to assure Rose.

"_You_ don't count then?" she challenged.

"I'm hardly Scorpius' fault."

"Sins of the father..."

"No."

"Perhaps that's what I love most about Scorpius - he asks no questions of me. _He is content with me. He allows me my secrets._"

"You and I are a secret?"

"Of course."

"So by your logic, Scorpius would allow you and I to continue..." Continue _what_, Draco did not specify.

"Yes."

"And if he were to stop allowing you your secrets? If he asked about us?"

"_That would be a tragedy._"

Rose squirmed in Draco's embrace, turning until she faced him. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him with the tenderness so often lacking in their coupling. She crawled on top of him, wriggling until his cock twitched to attention and then sunk slowly down his length.

Draco was aware Rose would be his downfall, but he was only just beginning to realise how sweet the descent would be.

Thirteen

Thoughts of Rose, her touch, overwhelmed Draco. Still, he had not foreseen how reckless he would become to have her or how easily she came to him when beckoned. Rose strode into his office appearing heedless of the impression she left in her wake. Draco's secretary of some dozen years, a paragon of discretion, rearranged his diary when Draco's office door clicked shut behind his unannounced guest.

Draco, with his robes parted and an enthusiastic redhead bobbing energetically up and down his cock, had relinquished control of his enjoyment of Rose. Her mouth upon his flesh was almost too much to bear and yet the thought of its removal pained him more.

Draco ran his hands through his thinning hair. There were potions to restore the luster of one's hair to its former magnificence, but he had chosen to cultivate the appearance of a man not driven by vanity. Fingers locking together behind his head, Draco looked down his pointed nose at the rhythmic hollowing of Rose's cheeks.

Draco straddled the edge of pleasure and pain: Rose was the harbinger of both. She raked her blunt nails across the blank flesh of his thighs, leaving pink trails behind. The cavern of her mouth incarcerated his cock. He did not welcome release. He wanted to stay forever on the cusp of completion. Draco felt deflated by the calmness that flooded him after ejaculation.

Since the age of seventeen Draco had succeeded in enjoying life's pleasures as little as possible. At fifty Draco was undertaking a private study in the limits of pleasure, but was yet to discover the painful demarcation of jouissance.

Fourteen

"I may have to go to Paris on Friday," Draco informed his wife as he disrobed for bed. Each layer removed revealed the shape of him, the toned, lean planes of his body, more appealing now than when Astoria first glimpsed them decades earlier.

"How unexpected. Ministry business?"

"Hmm," affirmed Draco, around a mouth full of toothbrush and paste. He spat and rinsed his mouth, then swiped a damp washcloth across his face and neck.

"I was planning a surprise get away to Spain this weekend. Perhaps I'll take Stella."

"That's a good idea," Draco encouraged as he padded back into the bedroom. "The business on Friday really should be between the foreign ministers, but you know how the Treasurer is. Put him in a room with a Chancellor and an Eschequier and suddenly it's 'Where's Malfoy?'."

"Of course darling. Maybe you can meet up with Scorpius when you're there?"

"Still on assignment is he?"

"You know he is darling. Although I suspect he's extended his stay to be with Rose."

"Oh, is she covering a story in France too?"

"Who knows with that girl? She may just be gallivanting with Scorpius."

"Or visiting her family." Draco reasonably pointed out.

"It's serious between them you know." Astoria sat up primly in bed, pleased to at last have her husband's attention to discuss what was bothering her.

"If you mean that they're..." Draco gestured vaguely with one hand, "_involved_."

"Don't be silly. Of course they're _involved_ Draco, they're twenty five and obviously shagging each other senseless. No. I think it's serious, for Scorpius anyway. I think he wants to marry her."

"Really?" The thought had never occurred to Draco.

"Yes really." Astoria smiled at her husband, but her eyes betrayed her concern for their son.

"Do you want me to talk to Scorpius? About marriage..."

_"I feel you should talk to Scorpius soon - man to man. Think about what to say."_

"Yes, I will."

The conversation was over.

Fifteen

Paris at dawn was a beauteous sight that inspired recklessness in Draco. He had desperate hours to spend at his leisure until the final breakfast meeting of the weekend so he Apparated to a half-remembered Rue from his past.

He fisted the magical coin in his pocket, transferring the message _Rue Jacques Callot, just off Rue de Seine_, to his... what _was_ Rose exactly? Words no longer held meaning for Draco: lover, mistress, whore, temptress, witch, woman. Titles were nothing more than naming something for the benefit of others. Draco was no longer driven by the need to supply such answers and he was damned if he could formulate an answer more adequate than _his_ anyway.

Draco heard the _pop_ of Rose's arrival moments before he saw the flash of her red hair. She spun around to face the man that lured her from her warm bed to the cold street as surely as _Alohamora_ opens the simplest of locks. She sprinted toward him, to his outstretched arms, only to be crudely pushed against the stone wall that lined the street. Draco silhouetted Rose upon the wall, covering her body, her mouth, with his. The uneven bricks bit into Rose's back as Draco ground his hips into his quarry, the loose knit cardigan she had grabbed from the floor of her room doing little to abate the friction. Draco captured Rose's arms which had fallen loosely about his neck and raised them above her head. Rose sucked in a sharp breath when the backs of her hands grazed across the rough surface of the wall. Rose bucked her denim clad pelvis against Draco.

_"I have to have you," gasped Draco._

"So have me," she whispered.

Draco let go of Rose's hands, dropping them to his trousers. Three succinct movements and he was easing underneath her scandalously short denim skirt and into her wet heat. He sucked at the soft underside of her jaw while jerking erratically inside her. _t was over in minutes._

Draco withdrew from her. She pulled her wand from the back pocket of her skirt and with an arcing swish cleansed them both. Draco tucked his now flaccid cock into his unstained pants. Rose bent down to her bag, tossed aside in their tussle, to retrieve a pair of knickers. She wriggled into them and tugged her skirt down from its indecent arrangement about her hips to the top of her thighs. She _smiled a sudden, girlish smile_ as she straightened.

Draco watched her with an emotion he could not name. He felt if he stayed a moment longer he would weep. _He could not remember ever crying as an adult._

Rose cupped his cheek in one warm palm, offering whatever Draco wanted to read into the gesture as the sun shone brighter in the early morning sky.

"I have to go." She had spoken the words Draco should have said.

"To Scorpius?"

"Who else?" she asked.

"Hugo?"

Rose's eyes narrowed at the casual, or perhaps merely careless, insinuation.

"No," she replied crisply, guarded. "He's in Egypt."

"When are you back in England?"

"Scorpius will be back in the next week or two."

"That's not what I asked."

"I'll probably follow Scorpius."

"Probably," repeated Draco, dissatisfied with Rose's answer.

"I really do have to go, mum will have a fit if she checks Gran's clock while I'm out."

"Scorpius doesn't wonder where you are?"

"He trusts me."

One blond eyebrow twitched at the suggestion.

"As hard as that it is for you to believe, it's the truth."

As quickly as she had answered Draco's call she departed.

His desperation merely fueled after their latest encounter, Draco Apparated back to his hotel and into the embrace of a scalding hot shower to prepare for the monotony of a morning without Rose.

Sixteen

Draco imagines the many ways Scorpius fucks Rose. Curiously he makes the distinction in his mind that she is the subject of the act, not the actor. He imagines her as passive, when he knows she is anything but.

He imagines the pair in Rose's bed, underneath clean sheets, Scorpius slowly entering her, Rose receiving him atop her.

Draco rarely manages to make it to her bed to ravage her.

He thinks of Scorpius dragging Rose into the Manor's library for a quick snog. His enthusiasm, not yet dampened by age, rewarded with the hardening of his cock. His hands guiding hers over the bulge of his pants, silently suggesting but never demanding that she relieve the pressure. Draco thinks his son a cautious lover.

Draco would happily force her to her knees and stuff her mouth with the hard length of him. In fact, he regularly does.

He pictures the care with which Scorpius seduces Rose: candlelit dinners thoughtfully prepared followed by gentle love making.

The idea is decidedly unpalatable to Draco who savours the unthinkingness of his trysts with Rose.

Draco considers his son and Rose with the objectivity of a spectator befitting Astoria. Draco never entertains the reality that he in fact a rival to his son's happiness, it not being instinctive to him to see the situation subjectively.

Seventeen

_With an almost delicate ease, Draco left Paris in a triumph of moral degradation._

He returned to an empty house. Summoning a house elf to prepare him a meal he retired to his study. Several productive hours passed as he notarised the pertinent points of the weekend to forward to Cabinet.

His work was disrupted by Astoria's voice through the floo. Her face materialised in the embers of the low burning fire.

"Have you seen Scorpius and Rose?"

"No."

A partial truth Draco told his unsuspecting wife, for he had not seen Scorpius. _The new and strange shape Draco was assuming was hardening each day. The facile liar, the violent lover, the betrayer, would allow no return journey. His path was clear. He knew he was on a headlong rush to destruction._

Astoria's sigh crackled through the logs that connected England to Spain.

"I'll speak to Scorpius when he's back home."

"If it's not too late."

Chastised, Draco watched Astoria abruptly disconnect the fire call, clearly unhappy with him.

Eighteen

"Dad?" Scorpius' voice echoed through his father's study.

Draco put down his morning paper and moved to kneel before the fireplace, bemused that his son was fire calling him so early in the morning.

"Oh good, you're there. Do you mind if I come through?"

"No, not at all." Draco straightened and took a step back to allow Scorpius to end the fire call and floo through.

"What brings you home?"

"I needed to speak to you. Face to face."

"I see," said Draco.

"It couldn't wait," continued Scorpius, urgency lacing his voice.

"Then by all means, speak." His hand gravitating to his wand, currently sheathed inside his robes.

In a giddy rush Scorpius said, "I've been offered Deputy Political Editor of the paper!"

Draco's eyes widened at the announcement, his heart stilling in relief at the news. His mind quickly caught up with the situation and he offered his congratulations as he hugged his son.

"That's extraordinary Scorpius. Twenty-five and you've rocketed up the ranks. I'm proud of you." Despite Draco's loathsome sexual indiscretions he sincerely wished his son well in his professional endeavours.

"Thanks dad," beamed Scorpius. "A celebration is in order. No excuses - the whole family has to come to El Cruz to indulge my promotion with the utmost excess!"

Draco laughed. "Of course."

"Then it's decided. I'll see you on Saturday." Scorpius pinched some floo powder from his father's mantle and stepped into the flames and out of sight once more.

_Draco needed to recover. Not only from the sudden shock of talking to Scorpius, but from the conversation itself, which had disturbed him. Draco was not the only person who was changing. Scorpius the man was emerging more strongly._

Nineteen

_They were an impressive-looking group as they entered the restaurant._

Three generations of Malfoys had gathered together for a rare semi-public outing in Scorpius's honour. El Cruz was an exclusive wizarding restaurant that was secluded from the general malaise of the wizarding milieu.

Lucius, Narcissa, Draco, Astoria and Stella were escorted though El Cruz to a private room, partitioned from the main restaurant by glamour that recreated the view outside of the Mediterranean Sea. Scorpius and Rose welcomed them to their table, to their celebration.

A uniform sea of platinum crowned heads was broken by Rose's ginger tresses. She sat at the round table like a ruby set in a princely diadem, as obvious as an intentionally placed jewel.

Rose observed the Malfoys with a keenness befitting a journalist. It gave Rose unparalleled pleasure to observe carefully and to write truthfully. Observation, Scorpius often told her, was Rose's great strength, not only as a writer but as a woman. On this particular balmy Spanish evening, Rose observed the tug of the tide that was history swelling in the distance. Soon the Malfoy's carefully cultivated narrative would change as surely as the sea. Of that, Rose had no doubt.

Twenty

Apparating home after their enjoyable but exhausting evening at El Cruz, Astoria and Draco readied themselves for bed.

As Astoria spelled her face clean and applied her night potions she spoke to her husband about the problem that was Rose.

"We should try and find out more about her. Have you spoken to Scorpius yet? _I've tried. It's quite difficult. He says he knows all he needs to know._"

"Perhaps he does."

"He thinks he does. That's hardly the same thing."

"Yes, dear."

"Don't 'yes dear' me Draco! What do _you_ think?"

"I think," said Draco, walking to wife who sat on the side of their bed and placing his hands on her shoulder. "That you want the best for our son."

"As do you."

"Yes, but Scorpius needs to make up his own mind. I'll talk to him."

"Thank you."

_And so they lay in bed. A man whose eyes could deceive a wife of nearly thirty years, and a wife who after nearly thirty years could be so deceived. Their practiced movements were as pleasant as an old remembered song of long ago. But even as Draco surrendered to those final shudders that are all and nothing, it was, he knew, a final defeat for Astoria in a battle she did not know she waged. And it was a triumph for Rose, who had not even fought._

Twenty One

"Mr Malfoy, your son is here to see you," Draco's secretary announced over their inter-office sound system.

Draco stared blankly at the apparatus that heralded his son's unexpected arrival with inanimate indifference.

"Dad!"

"Scorpius," he rejoined stiffly. His thoughts flooded with the nightmare of Scorpius knowing he was involved with Rose. Had Scorpius the slightest inclination to perform _Legilimency_ on his father a kaleidoscope of betrayals would be his for the viewing.

Scorpius took his father's outstretched hand in his and affectionately clapped his free hand upon Draco's back.

"Do you mind if I take a seat?"

"No. Not at all, please." Draco gestured to the two seats in front of the fireplace.

"Don't worry," assured Scorpius, mistaking his father's curious hesitancy for busyness. "I shan't be long. I wanted to ask you about my trust." Scorpius coloured slightly at the mention of the money his parents and grandparents had set aside for him.

"It's invested in several accounts," Draco answered while his mind churned with curiosity. "Did you want to oversee the management of the funds?"

"No, no. Nothing like that. I was rather hoping you could let me know when I can access the trust."

"I'm afraid the conditions of your trust are rather rigid in their arcane provisions. Your trust matures when you do."

"So, when I'm a certain age..."

"No, maturity isn't a numerical achievement. It's more than that. You'll have your trust made available to you when you marry..."

Scorpius nodded, and Draco was unsure if he imagined it or not, but he seemed almost buoyant at the news.

"Thanks dad, that's all I needed to know. I'll let you get back to ruling the Wizarding world."

_Scorpius' voice continued, but Draco was unable to absorb his words. Stunned by admiration and jealously, he realised that his son, cloaked in his own reality of beauty and intelligence, had become at last and most dangerously his rival._

Twenty Two

_"I must know that you will be in my life forever. I must know that,"_ beseeched Draco.

_"Why?"_

"There can be no 'after Rose' in my life."

"What a curious thought," mused Rose.

"Tell me," demanded Draco.

"There is only now. There is only me."

"When you marry? When you have his children?"

"Scorpius hasn't asked..."

"He will."

"Perhaps I want to marry Scorpius. A life lived with Scorpius would be normal." _She spoke the word 'normal' as though it were a benediction._

"What about me?" The question lurched forth from Draco.

"Marry you? _Scorpius would never, ever forgive you. He would be lost to you forever. Stella would be dreadfully harmed. I would be at the centre of a terrible scandal. And you, you would be destroyed. And for what? So that we could have a domestic life together. It would be a nonsense. We were not made for that. No we were made for what we have. The constant satisfaction of our need for each other."_

He loathed the sight of her pitying eyes. Eyes that Oedipus would prick out with a fated pin if the opportunity arose.

He turned her away from him and then violently pulled her hips snug against his, his hands digging into her hipbones. He rocked forward, guiding her torso toward her thighs. He nudged her feet further apart, her stance widening until her hands sought purchase on the floor to steady herself. She was bent in half, her body manipulated by Draco for his pleasure. He spread the cheeks of her arse with his thumbs. Her calves protested at the strain of holding the pose while Draco rubbed his cock along the crack of her bum. He wanted to tear her in half and laugh as she cried. He wanted to be the only man who made her come. He wanted everything she was and to claim it as his own. He spat in his hand and fisted his cock with his sticky palm, saliva mingled with semen at the tip of cock as pre-ejaculate beaded at his head.

With more care than Rose expected, Draco positioned himself at her puckered anus, pulled her cheeks further apart and pushed inside her arse, inch by barely lubricated inch.

_Tales of ecstasy are endless tales of failure. For always comes separation. And the journey towards the essential, fleeting unity begins again._

Twenty Three

It is late at night when Draco receives Rose's gift. His secretary finished for the day hours earlier. His staff have retired for the day, leaving their infatiguable boss to continue on in the corridors of Wizarding Westminster alone.

Her owl - it has no markings, but he knows it is hers - delivers to him a scroll wrapped around a small vial. Placing the vial on his desk for later consideration, he reads her note.

  
_D_

You need this explanation more than he does. He accepts, without, of course, knowing why, that a part of me remains forever closed to him. He can handle disappearances, separations, and silences in a way that you can't. You know him so little. Believe me, he is remarkable.

You both could understand my little story. Only you need to hear it.

Rose

Draco unwarded the lowermost drawer under his desk to remove a small silver Pensieve. He poured Rose's duplicate memories into the object, pausing, momentarily, to acknowledge the tendrils of awe he felt. It was with reserved respect and no small amount of wonderment that he leaned his head over his desk and into the swirling pool of the Pensieve.

*

Draco fell into a beachside scene. He recognised Hermione immediately, her bushy brown hair unmistakable despite the years that had passed since Draco had last seen her. She sat cross-legged on a green gingham beach towel, a ginger headed infant suckling at her breast. She smiled out at the sea where two small children splashed in the surf. Draco spotted Rose the enthusiastic five year old doing cartwheels in the sand. Her corkscrew curls had turned a deep scarlet from the water and remained plastered to her head as she planted one hand and then the other beneath her. Arthur clapped his hands when Rose managed to execute two cartwheels in a row. Draco was surprised by Arthur's appearance for he had thought the boy would be another redheaded Weasley, a miniature incarnation of his father. Arthur's hair was nearly black when wet, his eyelashes did not share the red tint of his siblings and he sported a golden tan unlike Rose whose pale skin already bloomed with freckles. Arthur had, however, inherited his father's pale blue eyes. Eyes that remained wide open as he proceeded to show his little sister his expertise in the field of handstands.

*

The sunshine faded to night as the scene swirled anew.

Draco stood in a child's room. Walls were painted in a pastel pinstripe, hand drawn dragons danced upon the ceiling, breathing fire and snorting smoke. Starlight streamed through the bedroom window, illuminating the sleeping figure of Arthur.

Draco turned to the opening door as Rose, no older than six, crept into Arthur's room and crawled into his bed. Arthur stirred when his sister's cold feet brushed against his.

"Rosie?"

"Mummy's not in her bed."

"Do you want to check the clock?" he asked Rose sleepily.

Rose turned wide brown eyes to her brother and nodded.

Draco followed the pair out into the hallway and into the family kitchen. Adorning one wall was a clock that he vaguely remembered someone from his Hogwarts days mentioning. In the centre of the clock was a traditional timepiece which showed that it was two in the morning. Radiating out from that were five hands labelled Daddy, Mummy, Arthur, Rose, Hugo.

Arthur studied the clock thoughtfully. Draco wondered suddenly whether he had ever caused Scorpius and Stella to worry like these children. He hoped not.

The spokes that indicated Arthur, Rose and Hugo were all in the southern portion of the clock indicating they were 'home'. Arthur and Rose's spokes were coloured chartreuse because they were awake, while Hugo's spoke remained midnight blue which meant he was asleep.

"Can you read what the clock says?" asked Arthur.

"Work," Rose answered correctly.

"Mummy must have had to leave in a hurry. But look at the colour," instructed Arthur. "Mummy is yellow, which means she's happy." Arthur smiled at his little sister.

"Daddy isn't yellow."

Draco joined the children in looking at the orange marker.

"No," agreed Arthur. "But he's not red, that's not so bad."

"Back to bed?"

Rose took Arthur's small hand in her even smaller hand and was led back to his room. They snuggled against each, and Draco understood that Arthur and Rose were everything to each other.

*

The scene dissolved and reformed to show Arthur and Rose flying with a group of about ten children over plains of red dirt. They tossed a battered old Quaffle high into the air, laughter filling the air as they jostled against each to be the first to fly to the Quaffle and catch it. A boy of eleven, brawnier and older than Arthur, sped toward the ball, the tail of his broom clipping the handle of Rose's broom, causing her to spin and lose her focus on staying in the air.

She fell through the clear blue sky, her face contorted in a terrifying mixture of surprise and fear.

Arthur shot through the air, intently single minded on catching his sister before she crashed to the ground. He collected her in a jarring swoop, her breath catching in relief at being in Arthur's grasp and in pain as her left arm was wrenched from its socket. Arthur plummeted the last dozen yards to the ground with little control, being unused to commanding a broom with more than his body weight. Arthur's knees bore the brunt of the unsteady landing, skidding across the ground and shredding his jeans. He rolled instinctively onto his back so Rose was cushioned by his body as they came to an unsettling stop.

Arthur hugged his sister to his chest, the pair sobbing uncontrollably as adrenalin began to fade and pain started to make itself known.

It was a spectacular act of unthinking bravery that amazed Draco.

Considerably less amazing was the delayed reaction of the adults entrusted with supervising the children, who rushed into the scene, rather too late in Draco's opinion.

*

Wide open spaces transformed into a young girl's bedroom, walls papered with a pale paisley motif. Under crisp white sheets the tops of two heads were visible.

Draco stood over the children, not seeing their faces but hearing one of them shush the other.

Muffled voices were audible through the closed door.

"They're both too old for this," a man's voice said.

"Ron you're being ridiculous. I think it's sweet."

"Sweet?" Ron's voice with tinged with something desperately like hysteria.

"Yes," Hermione hissed back. "I would've given anything for a brother or sister to snuggle with when I was their age. Leave. Them. Alone."

Draco could only imagine the scathing look Hermione was directing toward her husband.

"I suppose he'll grow out of it at Hogwarts," Ron harrumphed.

Draco turned back to the children half-hiding under the covers of Rose's bed when he heard them whispering.

"Will you still want to share my bed after you've gone to Hogwarts?" Rose asked plaintively.

"Always," he promised.

*

Draco sucked in an unnecessary breath when his non-corporeal self entered the Great Hall of Hogwarts. Rose, in all her magnificence, caught his eye immediately. She wore an ice blue dress that flowed over her emerging woman's figure. Her ringlets were pinned in careful disarray and threaded with a wreath of baby's breath, forming a floral crown in her hair. She was dancing with Arthur, his eyes sparkling with the wonderment Draco felt.

Rose stepped a beat too soon as they turned about the dance floor. Arthur steadied her against his body, one hand lingering at the small of her back, before returning to the rhythm of the dance. Draco was fascinated to watch the teasing touches Rose bestowed upon her brother, the daring quirk of Arthur's mouth and eyebrows silently encouraging her.

They stepped outside the Hall mid-song, making their way beyond the lights of the Yule Ball, past the rows of rosebushes, stopping before the darkened thicket of trees that led toward the lower grounds. Draco's eyes widened as he saw the siblings kiss. Rose ran her fingers through Arthur's dark auburn hair, while he in turn cupped her face in his hands. They kissed with open mouths and tangling tongues. Rose trailed one hand down the front of Arthur's robes and burrowed expertly beneath the outer layer and the trousers obscured from view to claim Arthur's cock. Arthur held onto his little sister's hips, guiding the gyrations that accompanied the tugging of her hand. Arthur broke away from Rose's lips, gasping with satisfaction as he came in his pants.

Rose withdrew her hand and brought it to her mouth, licking away the salty, sticky semen. Arthur stole a quick kiss, tasting himself on her lips.

They broke apart when they heard the crunch of gravel underfoot. Arthur quickly spelled his pants and Rose's hands clean. Neville Longbottom was ambling past the rosebushes, flicking his wand left and right to illuminate his path.

"Back you go you two, don't make me take points," said Neville for the countless time that evening.

"We just needed some air, Professor," apologised Arthur.

"Oh! Rosie, Art. I thought you were..."

"Rosebush bandits?" Rose helpfully suggested.

Draco laughed at how flustered Neville became at the impropriety of the suggestion, he was his grandmother's boy after all.

"Ah, yes, well, my mistake," Neville rambled. Recovering, the Herbology teacher said, "It's been far too long since I saw your parents. How are they? Well?"

"They're both quite well, sir," answered Arthur.

"Mum's in Morocco this month. Dad won't say where he is officially but everyone knows he's in Mexico for the Wizarding World Cup," added Rose.

"And you, how are you?" Neville asked Arthur.

"Relieved to be finished with my O.W.L's sir."

"Of course. Well, in other _unofficial_ news," Neville tapped the side of his nose as he spoke, "you can be assured an Outstanding for Herbology. Hardly surprising as you're the finest student in my Fifth Year class. I do hope you continue with my class for your N.E.W.T levels."

"Thank you, sir."

Neville began to usher the teenagers back to the Great Hall. Chatting as they went about Rose's prospects at being made a prefect the following year and what subjects she might choose for her O.W.L's.

*

The darkness of night brightened to the mandarin soaked morning light of dawn. Draco was once more in Rose's bedroom, which had remained mostly unchanged since the earlier childhood scene he watched.

Rose and Arthur lay entwined together in her bed, peacefully asleep. Rose reminded Draco inexplicably of a Celtic Goddess, her long red hair cascading down her back, in the arms of her doomed mortal lover. The bed sheets were bunched about their waists, affording Draco a view of the siblings flawless flesh obscured only by the top of Arthur's pyjama pants and the watermelon coloured silk of Rose's shift.

Draco was caught by surprise when the door to the room opened and Ron blundered into the scene. Draco watched with muted horror as Ron wrenched his son from Rose's bed, roughly pulling him to his feet.

"Enough," spat Ron. "Enough."

Wordlessly Ron summoned Arthur's wand and thrust it into his hand.

"I want your word this ends now," demanded Ron.

"That what ends now?"

"Dad!" Rose knelt on the bed, scared by the fury she saw contorting her father's face.

"Get your wand Rose." Rose looked bemused, but did as she was told.

Ron gripped Arthur's hands in his, each man's blue eyes - their only common trait - glittered with anger.

"Touch your wand to our joined hands," Ron instructed Rose.

"Dad?"

"Don't make me repeat myself."

Rose's hand trembled as she pressed her wand tip to her father's meaty hand.

Draco's jaw dropped as Ron spoke with righteous agitation and thin tongues of brilliant red flames shot from Rose's wand to wind around the joined hands of Arthur and Ron. Rose cried, unable to end the Vow her father was subjecting her brother to. When Ron finished swearing the Unbreakable Vow Rose fell back on her haunches on the bed.

"You should have just killed me. We both know how this is going to end." Arthur looked defiantly into his father's eyes.

Draco agreed.

*

Draco could not tell how much time had passed. Hours? Days? Weeks? Rose's room was immune to chronicling the passage of time.

Arthur and Rose lay naked on their backs, hands clasped, staring at the ceiling. Draco moved closer to Rose, ridiculously relieved when he saw the rise and fall of her chest with her shaky breaths. Her breasts bore trails of salt, possibly sweat, probably tears. He wanted to cup her breasts in his palm and smear the moisture over her pebbled nipples. He was drawn to the soft planes of her stomach, and down lower to the ginger covered mound, not yet trimmed in the sophisticated style she wore it now. Semen streaked the inside of her thighs and stained the sheets beneath. Searching her face Draco knew what had happened.

*

Draco exited the Pensieve, his clammy hands gripping the rim of the bowl, his head bowed with dizziness as he struggled to comprehend all that Rose had shown him.

Draco understood that Arthur had loved Rose more than life itself. That was his destruction. It would be the shared fate of Draco and a boy he never knew.

He had delved beneath the surface of Rose's life, had visited her past, and for all the obvious and undeniable differences between their stories, felt as though he was reliving his own memories.

Twenty Four

It had been madness to agree with his parents and children that a weekend at the Manor was in order. His mother's birthday celebrations warranted, however, a particular familiar obligation.

At three in the morning, Draco woke up in his childhood bed, uncomfortably aroused. He got gingerly out of bed and made his way to the lavatory on the second floor landing. He rested his forehead against the cool, mute mirror, his hands wrapping around the porcelain basin and not his aching genitals.

Pushing back Draco glimpsed Rose's reflection between the wall and the ajar door, her pale face and bright eyes caught in the silver glass. Facing her he summoned her into the room with the barest arch of his eyebrow.

Rose eyed the flannelette pyjama bottoms that did little to disguise his erection. She entered the room and sunk to her knees on the tiled floor to bring her mouth to the swollen flesh Draco was unable to take in his hand. He was tired and sore, his gratification was quick and unreciprocated.

Rose used the hem of Draco's singlet to swipe across her mouth. She rose to her feet and with her hands on his shoulders she leaned into him to whisper against his ear, "Scorpius asked me to marry him today."

The prominent pulse of Draco's neck throbbed with the news. "Congratulations," he offered stiffly.

"It changes nothing."

Rose may have believed her words but nothing was more untrue. It changed everything.

"He'll announce the engagement tomorrow. It's his birthday present to Narcissa..."

"An expensive brooch wouldn't suffice?"

"I'll make it up to you."

"I look forward to it."

"Oh, you will," promised Rose. "You, me, a little flat in London for the exclusive pleasure of our fucking. That will be our life."

Perhaps that would be enough for Draco. _After all, Draco had lived a life that had never been real to him. He could surely continue to give his performance, now that at last he had a real life. The one one Rose had given him._

Twenty Five

"You're giving this up?" asked Draco, spinning slowly around Rose's living room, arms outstretched.

"It's only a house. Not even that, just a flat really."

"Ah, but what you'll have with Scorpius will be a," he paused deliberately, drawing out the final stinging word of his sentence, "_home_."

Rose shook her head. Draco's jealousy that she and Scorpius had bought a house together was undisguised. She crossed the room until she was less than an arm's breadth from Draco.

"I'm letting these walls go. The floor and the ceiling too. You?" She cocked her head to the side, appraising him with mock-seriousness. "You I'll keep around a while yet."

Draco had no rejoinder. He was torn between solace at his continued place with Rose and agony at the prospect of being cast aside as easily as her apartment. It was so like Rose to create duelling emotions in Draco, he was constantly on the edge of worship and derision when it came to her.

_As Draco left, she said:_

"I have a gift for you." Rose handed Draco a small box. "I keep my promises. Remember that. Forget the rest." She closed Draco's hand around it. "I planned this, a little time ago." She opened the door, and Draco slipped out.

Draco Apparated to Regent's Park, materialising beneath one of the willow trees by the pond in Queen Mary's Gardens. He leaned against the trunk of the tree, retrieving the small box he had shrunk to fit in the inner pocket of his jacket. Wordlessly he charmed the box to its original size. Draco trembled with anticipation as he opened the locked treasure.

Inside were two ordinary house keys and a Muggle business card with bland type, stating only:  


  
_Flat C_

15 Welbeck Way, WI

Draco proficiently cast a semi-complicated orienteering charm, quickly ascertaining that Welbeck Way was a brisk fifteen minute walk from his current location. He cut through the park, past tourists stalled over maps and locals moving with purpose with phones pressed against their ears. Hands jammed in his pockets, Draco crossed Marylebone Road which bustled with traffic. He moved swiftly against the maddening stream of cars until he veered right into Devonshire Place where the flow eased considerably. With little conscious effort, merely guided by his hidden wand, Draco continued onto Wimpole Street and was almost surprised when the street sign for Welbeck Way appeared before him.

Fifteen was a tall, white stoned building. He slipped one of the keys, now warm from being grasped in his hot hand, into the front door. Muggle builders dotted the foyer as he entered, each undertaking various renovations tasks.

"You right, mate?" asked one of the labourers, his overalls flecked with beige paint.

"I'm looking for Flat C," Draco answered genially.

"Third floor." The man pointed toward the staircase which was clear of the scaffolding that decorated every other available surface.

Draco nodded his thanks and made his way to the stairs that would lead him to his new life with Rose.

"Oi Gary," called the painter suspended between the first and second floors. "Ain't that Ginger's flat?"

"Is the Pope German?"

"Fucked if I know." Assorted workers laughed at the exchange.

"Mister!" The painter, undeterred, yelled out to Draco. "Is that your missus' place?"

"Something like that," Draco replied, not slowing in his steady ascent from the second to the third and final flight of stairs.

"I bet she's something," someone hollered front the ground floor. Draco smiled to himself as he reached Flat C and eased the key into the lock.

As he shut the door to his and Rose's place he heard someone ask, "How do you have something like a missus?"

_On the table was a note. 'This room will contain nothing but us. A world within a world. I shall visit it to know your wishes. For in this world I have created, you rule and I am your slave. I will wait at the times you designate. Being obedient, I will always be there.'_

Draco picked up the diary that had been placed on the bed.

_Folded on the page was a long green silk ribbon, and underneath was written, 'And he came into his kingdom.' Draco flicked the empty pages forward and found an entry ten days ahead which said 'Rose waits, twelve till two.'_

Draco cursorily inspected the flat. It was small and modern. Sparse in its decorating and obvious in its purpose.

_Draco bound up the diary with the green ribbon and placed a note under the ribbon which read, 'Open on the twentieth, between twelve and two.'_

*

When Draco returned on the twentieth he was greeted by the very agreeable sight of Rose, _real and magnificent, on the floor; the diary was on her stomach. Draco smiled as he undid the ribbon_.

He read the lascivious instructions with interest. He spelled his clothes off, not wanting to waste any of the precious one hundred and twenty minutes they had allotted this tryst, on the trifling matter of undressing.

He cupped her breasts, pushing them together until they were a single plaything. Draco straddled the willing witch beneath him, edging his hips to rise of her breasts and eased his cock between her the manipulated flesh of her bust. It was a curiously soft sensation as he rubbed against the slick skin of her chest and bouncy softness of her breasts. He shifted his hands so his fingertips could feel the head of his cock as it peeked out from the valley of Rose's ample bosom. His touch triggered his release, streams of ejaculate spitting over Rose's neck and chin to dribble over her breasts and his spent cock. He felt cleansed by her besmirched body.

_When it was time to go Rose wrote in the diary. Draco saw the time - four to six - and that the date was the day before her wedding. She took a new ribbon -blue- and wound it round and round the diary. Stroking Draco's face she said, "Everything. Always. Remember."_

Twenty Six

Draco spied Rose putting her wedding dress in the closet when he arrived at their fuckflat.

_"That is for tomorrow," she smiled. "This afternoon, and this evening are for you."_

As her dress fell from her, Draco knew her tribute in the way the dark silken cord passed between her legs, and the way in which its undulating colour wove itself her breasts.

Draco lifted her easily in his arms and placed her, almost tenderly, on the bed. Draco pushed inside her without preamble, each moving in an instinctive rhythm they had created together. Rose's head fell back, her mouth ajar with pleasure, her panting filled the room. Draco lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her madly as his hips pistoned relentlessly against her pelvis. Draco tore his mouth from Rose, desperate for air. He flicked his damp hair from his eyes with a swish of his head.

_As the door gave way to him, for a second Draco was the only one who saw Scorpius._

Draco stilled at the sight, his mind numb. Rose continued to writhe against Draco whose traitorous body reacted predictably to her touch. Draco's eyes, so fixed on his poor son, rolled back in ecstasy as he climaxed.

Draco withdrew from Rose, her whimper at the loss of his contact was unheard by him. He advanced on Scorpius who backed slowly out of the room.

There was confusion as Rose twisted herself on the bed, seeing for the first time her beautiful, betrayed fiancee and her naked lover together.

"Scorpius," breathed Draco, his arm held out entreating.

"No," Scorpius gasped. The word strangled from him in his dazed discovery. Scorpius continued to back away from his father, stunned by the betrayal, only to fall silently over the banisters to his death on the marble floor below.

Draco barrelled, naked, down the flights of stairs until he reached Scorpius' lifeless body. He cradled his son to his chest. He had caused this and the knowledge tore Draco's existence asunder.

Rose descended the stairs minutes later, she was dressed and composed as she told Draco, _"It's over. It's all over."_

Over the course of the afternoon the same labourers that had joked with Draco weeks earlier gathered around the spectacle that was his life and his son's death. One of them took pity on him and covered his nude body with a painter's smock.

Muggle police and Aurors arrived to take the statement of Draco and assorted witnesses.

One young Auror unhelpfully informed Draco that had the fall been from a greater height perhaps Draco could have cast a life saving cushioning charm.

*

Draco Apparated to his home, to his wife, bile rising within him in anticipation of her reaction upon seeing him. He entered the kitchen they had shared a lifetime, but not a life, together with callow caution.

_Astoria swung round to Draco. The shock of her face brought vomit to his mouth. Draco grabbed a towel; Astoria handed him a glass of water._

Touching her face she said, "I did it to stop the pain, with this." She held up a small blood-spattered white towel with a knot in it. Her face was streaked with blood.

"The pain was devouring me. This helped."

She picked up the towel and lashed herself. A spurt of blood dropped into the glass on the table.

She stood mutinously in front of Draco and said, "What a pity that we ever met."

"Stella?" It was the only sensible rebuttal Draco could offer.

"You and Rose suit each other well. You cause agony in others' lives."

Draco bit his tongue to stop from saying that was not fair. He had no right to fairness anymore.

Twenty Seven

Draco's resignation was met with polite murmurs from decent men trying to do the right thing by the Ministry. His resignation took immediate effect and he hoped that his retirement from public office would afford his family privacy to mourn.

The details of Scorpius's death were largely suppressed. The press were informed that Scorpius Malfoy died in a tragic accident and that some of the events surrounding this tragedy were sadly controversial. Draco personally issued a statement that asked for privacy for his wife and for himself for them to mourn the terrible loss of their son, and for Stella, who lost her most beloved brother.

Astoria and Draco agreed to separate and never see each other again.

Astoria's final words to Draco were laced with loathing and sadness: _"Goodbye. I don't mean this to sound cruel, but what a pity you didn't die, in some accident or something, last year."_

"My tragedy is that I don't agree. Goodbye, Astoria."

Twenty Eight

Given the labyrinthine nature of his downfall it was surprisingly straightforward for Draco to withdraw from the world.

He hid himself from the world at large, his own self-imposed exile, with a disgruntled house elf his only companion.

Draco established a consoling routine of exercise, sleep and limited cogitation. Occasionally he hears from Stella: she worries that he will one day withdraw so much from the world at large that his absence will be unfelt. He hopes she is right.

Once Draco lay Rose's picture on the ground. That large, motionless image of Rose before everything had gone wrong, or at least, before the world at large was aware of how very wrong things were, gazing unblinking back at Draco as he undressed. He covered her two dimensions with his tainted flesh, rubbing himself against the grainy canvas until creamy rivers of his ejaculate patterned her portrait.

Draco remembers what he saw of Rose and Arthur's final coupling - semen and tears and death.

Twenty Nine

Draco Apparated to Africa at Stella's insistence. It is only out of duty to his daughter he reluctantly agreed to upset his ascetic lifestyle.

Waiting for her, he sips a small glass of mint tea. The aromatic steam tickles his nose.

A flash of red hair catches his eye. Draco's back straightens, his jaw clenches at the thought of _her_. He has not seen Rose since the day Scorpius died. He stands suddenly and all but sprints to where he sees the red haired woman, she is almost out of sight when he gains ground.

She turns and faces Draco looking as dreadful and as magnificent as she did at each of their fated encounters. A strawberry haired toddler clings to the hem of her summer dress. Rose scoops her son up easily and Draco, breathlessly, stared at the child so characteristically Malfoy in appearance in all but hair colour.

Draco fell to his knees at the sight, unwilling to demand more from this glimpse into Rose's life without him then he had already stolen.

When Stella found her father, he was more broken than she could ever remember him being.

*

Back at his prison of choice, Draco sits on a stool before one large photograph that covers an entire wall. He bites into a crisp apple as he stares at the unmoving image before him. It is a photograph of Scorpius, Rose and himself outside Scorpius' childhood home. Stella had taken the picture at the very first meal Rose had been to. They looked so happy, so unaware of what fate lay ahead of them. They were all so beautiful, so filled with the promise of pleasure in all that life offered.

_For those of you who doubt it-- this is a love story._

It is over.

Others may be luckier.

Draco wishes them well.


End file.
